


Honey Soft

by stardropdream



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alpha Keith (Voltron), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nesting, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Omega Shiro (Voltron), Post-Canon, Protective Keith (Voltron), Purring Keith (Voltron), Scenting, Season 8 Doesn't Exist, Sharing a Bed, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:23:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27193057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: When Shiro feels himself getting sick, he thinks he can just power through it: smile, douse his scent, and carry on. He should have known that Keith would figure him out immediately. And maybe Keith taking care of him isn't so bad.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 96
Kudos: 375





	Honey Soft

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based off a tweet [Janel](https://twitter.com/goldentruth813) made which I forgot to save. It basically was just a desire for some hurt/comfort sickfic omega Shiro... so here it is! lol. (Thanks for letting me run with your idea, Janel!)
> 
> Thanks so much to [Abbey](https://twitter.com/sepiacigarettes) to reading this over for me and cheerleading. I appreciated the reassurance it wasn't totally off-base lol. You are the best and ilu! ♥

Shiro wakes up in the morning with a throbbing headache and a body made of lead. He groans into his pillow and, with some effort, pushes himself up onto his knees. His head swims with the movement, his vision going fuzzy as he stares down at his pillow. Even this simple action makes him feel winded. 

He’s used to the feeling of fatigue. Even with his clone body cured of his lifelong disease, he still gets those lingering aches and pains regularly, like his body hasn’t quite gotten the memo yet that there’s nothing to fight anymore. 

But this morning fatigue isn’t the same as those muscle-aches and it’s not the same kind of uncentered clawing he feels inside his gut whenever he sinks into a heat— he’s not due for a heat for a few months, anyway— so Shiro knows it’s not that, either. It’s a cold. 

He’s been valiantly pretending he isn’t getting sick for several days now. He’s gotten good at feeling a growing illness within his body when he’s coming down with something and so he’s also gotten very good at working past it, regardless. He’s a downright expert at ignoring colds at this point in his life. 

Shiro rubs at his temples and pulls himself out of bed. Every move feels like wading through molasses. But Shiro’s good at compartmentalizing and he’s good at working through his pain. _Just a cold,_ he thinks with a derisive sniff. He can handle feeling a little crummy and he’s certainly handled far, far worse. He's not about to let this stop his day. 

He has a lot of work to do today, anyway, and that’ll keep him focused and distracted. There are a few meetings, some trainings, some paperwork, that he has to get through before the day’s end, and he has everything scheduled out by the hour, with some begrudging fifteen minute breaks sprinkled throughout because he knows if he doesn’t take breaks, one of the other Paladins will sense it and come find him, thus derailing his entire schedule anyway. He’s learned to schedule breaks to appease his friends because last time he skipped meals, Lance threatened to call his mother and he isn’t ready to deal with her worried wrath. 

Pulling on his uniform is a struggle. He feels foggy-headed and weighed down, taking twice as long to lace up his boots as he normally does. Even once he finishes dressing for the day, he sits there and stares down at his feet, hands on his knees, summoning up the energy just to stand.

This doesn’t bode well for his productivity today. 

He checks his reflection in the mirror near his door. He looks fine, as far as he can tell. He’s always been good at hiding his chronic pain and existing through it, persisting even in his darkest moments. A cold is child’s play in comparison. 

Shiro is exceptionally good at dousing his scent, never betraying any non-essential emotions— he can’t remember the last time someone could scent the air and tell he was in distress, or pain, or anxious. It’s a good skill to have, even if he knows its development wasn’t in the best of circumstances. It was never good to smell like fear in the arena, after all. It was never good to smell like pain of his disease and worry his family or give the Garrison another reason to ground him. There were always so many things fighting against him— and now he’s an expert in controlling what he has the ability to control. 

Shiro doesn’t need to rely on anyone but himself, and a stupid, small cold is not going to interrupt that. Shiro can take care of himself. 

He smiles at his reflection— waiting until it nearly looks natural— and steps out to start his day.

-

Keith takes one look at Shiro as he enters the room and says, “Shiro…?” 

And, really, Shiro should have known that he couldn’t fool Keith. He never could.

Shiro might be an expert on suppressing his scent, on looking neutral and serene no matter the circumstances, but Keith is an expert on reading him like a book. He’s far too observant for his own good. 

Keith sniffs around him and doesn’t even have the decency to be subtle about it. He just scents Shiro right there, his brow furrowing when he can’t pick anything out of Shiro’s scent. Usually, Shiro finds it endearing how Keith doesn’t really care about expectations or common courtesies, like scenting in privacy. He just scents Shiro all the time to make sure he’s okay. 

Right now, it’s an effort to keep the sickness in his scent muffled. 

In contrast to Shiro’s fabricated serenity, Keith radiates uncertainty. It curls through his scent, burning bright and somehow still comforting to Shiro. He’s always admired Keith’s honesty in all things, how he wears his heart on his sleeve. Keith’s scent has always been a safe harbor to Shiro, even when it’s sour with anxiety or thick with anger. 

“Hey, Keith,” Shiro says, aiming for neutral and watching Keith’s lips thin. 

Shiro’s carefully constructed mask never fools Keith, and he knows Keith battles with the line between pushing past it and respecting Shiro’s wishes when he doesn’t want to share. Sometimes, if Shiro is honest with himself, he wants Keith to keep pushing— to make Shiro say what he can’t say on his own. To be given the excuse to say what he needs to say. 

There’s so much he’s never said to Keith. 

“Are you okay?” Keith says. 

He takes a step towards Shiro, and he always moves into Shiro’s space so easily, always welcome. It never feels like an intrusion for Keith to drift into his shadow, the way Shiro knows some alphas move and exist like they own any place they wish to occupy. Keith is always careful, always cautious in how he approaches someone, but especially Shiro— like he’s always afraid he might distress him. Keith only ever goes where he’s wanted and welcomed, and acts like it’s only a matter of time before he no longer is. 

But Keith’s presence is only ever comforting, even beyond Shiro’s base instincts. _Keith_ is always comforting. Shiro always wants him near. 

Shiro touches Keith’s shoulder, an easy gesture between them, his fingertips brushing away Keith’s hair. It’s been getting longer lately, dusting over his shoulders now. 

“I’m fine,” Shiro says. “Just a little tired today, I think. Nothing I can’t handle.” 

Keith nods, but his scent is twisted with the sullen notes of anxiety, staining the gentle honey of his scent. Shiro’s spent way too many days just thinking about Keith, the way he smiles, the way his scent always kicks up when he sees Shiro, like Shiro is worth knowing and being near. Even when he doesn’t mean to, he can sense the changes in Keith’s scent like it’s his own. 

“Are you sure?” Keith asks. “You just look…” 

Keith always looks at him like he can’t believe Shiro even wants to be near him. It stirs up all Shiro’s nurturing instincts, really— that desire to curl around Keith and never let him go, to nuzzle into his hair and tell him just how amazing he is. He could praise Keith for hours and never run out of things to say. Keith is amazing. 

Keith frowns as he tries to find the words. He settles for, “Exhausted.” 

Keith squirms, clearly fighting the urge to provide and to protect. It’s a common thing for him, Shiro thinks. He’s learned not to read too much into the way Keith orbits him. How protective he can be in both the physical and the emotional sense. They’ve been through a lot together over the years and Shiro knows that Keith is loyal, that he’ll always be a good friend. 

Shiro can’t expect anything more than that. The fact that he has Keith’s friendship and loyalty is more than he deserves, really.

Shiro smiles. “You’re the first one to say so.” 

Truthfully, Shiro worked for the better part of four hours before running into Keith, and someone earlier today even complimented the way Shiro styled his hair, as if he’d done anything differently. Nobody noticed he was off. Only Keith.

Of course only Keith. 

Keith sniffs again. Shiro’s scent must have changed, warming with affection as he looks at Keith. 

“Do you have anything else you’re doing today?” Keith asks.

It’s lunchtime, and Shiro was planning on working until after dinner. He can tell from Keith’s disapproving face that he would not appreciate that answer. Shiro smiles again and knows it must flinch across his face. 

Keith narrows his eyes. 

It’s Keith, Shiro reminds himself. Really, Keith’s the only one Shiro knows he can trust with the vulnerable parts of himself. But the age-old instinct inside him coils tight in his chest: don’t show weakness, don’t let on you’re in pain, fight, fight, _fight._

Shiro’s familiar with the ways the war has changed them all. Shiro thinks that, long ago, long before Kerberos, he was a gentler person. He’s not sure if that’s actually true, if he’s just thinking about the boy he used to be with a nostalgia and longing for what he’ll never get back. He knows what Keith would say if Shiro were to say anything— _Shiro, you are still kind. You’re the kindest person I know—_

Shiro wobbles on his feet. It’s barely a movement, but it’s betraying, and it’s a weakness he can’t afford to show. 

But Keith zeroes in on the swaying instantly. Of course he does.

He touches Shiro’s arms, his touch firm, protective, but so gentle. Keith is the gentle one, always reaching for Shiro, ready to support him if he were to accept it. Always ready to bring Shiro home. 

Sometimes, it overwhelms Shiro to think about all the ways Keith’s grown— how strong he is, how good he is. 

Keith’s hand lifts and touches Shiro’s forehead. His hand feels so cool, far cooler than it should, and it’s only then that Shiro realizes that it’s not that Keith’s hand is too cold, it’s that Shiro is too hot. He has a fever. He didn’t even notice. 

Keith’s expression darkens— not anger at Shiro, but that instinctual, panicked protectiveness that always crops up when it comes to him. 

Shiro wishes that Keith didn’t have to be such a slave to that protective nature of his. Keith would likely feel much freer if he weren’t saddled with Shiro, if he could push past the instinctive need. They’re all stronger than their base instincts, but Shiro knows it must be an influence. 

Shiro can’t stomach the idea of being a burden to Keith. 

“I’m taking you back to your room,” Keith says, voice sharp with a growl. Shiro’s grateful he isn’t in pre-heat, because the sound of Keith’s voice saying those words like that would definitely do something to Shiro otherwise. 

He smells the spike in his scent anyway, something spicy that he needs to reel back in before Keith notices. 

Keith’s hand slides down Shiro’s arm and then reaches for Shiro’s PADD. He thumbs in the four-digit code, memorized and never used without Shiro’s permission, and sends a message to Shiro’s assistant to cancel his afternoon meetings. He moves so efficiently, so diligently that Shiro’s fuzzy brain barely comprehends what he’s doing until it’s too late to stop him. 

Maybe part of him doesn’t want Keith to stop. 

He lets Keith corral him out of his office and back towards his quarters. 

As they walk, Shiro just feels woozy. He tries to hide it, to keep Keith from noticing and doing something unnecessary like trying to carry Shiro down the hallways of his own ship. Except then he sways a little and Keith’s arm snaps out, hooking around his waist and holding him tight.

Keith is shorter than Shiro, but there’s no denying his strength. He holds Shiro up easily even as he leans more and more against his side. To an outside observer, it’d look like they were simply walking side by side, Keith’s arm a possessive, protective curl around Shiro. Maybe they look easy like this, like they’ve always meant to look like this. 

He’s heard the rumors, how so many people already think they’re mates. Shiro’s not blind to the way Keith treats him the way an alpha would their mate. But that’s about as far as Shiro lets his thoughts indulge. It wouldn’t do well to long for something like that. Keith is his friend. Keith is kind to him because he feels like he owes Shiro. Because they’re friends. 

Shiro hates the feeling that washes through him— a pathetic fatigue, the wooziness, the fever, the heavy feeling in his limbs. It’s the kind of helplessness he feels just before a heat, just before his disease flares up in his tendons, just before he’s strapped to a table and experimented on, just before he’s ripped apart atom by atom and wakes up in the Black Lion’s consciousness. 

Shiro hates to be weak. 

Atlas’ doors woosh open to Keith as they approach, and Keith pulls Shiro inside. He guides him to his bed and sits him down. Shiro moves like he’s lost in water, everything fuzzed out and quiet, his ears ringing. He holds his breath, his scent spiking as he watches Keith kneel in front of him to untie the laces of his boots.

If Keith smells the change in his scent, he says nothing, although his cheeks are a rosy pink as he slips Shiro’s boots off for him. 

“You need to rest,” Keith says. “No more work today.” 

Shiro barely hears the words, his brain murky and his attention focused only on how Keith looks kneeling before him, his dark hair dusting across his shoulders, his eyes as bright as nebulas looking up at him, his scent a warm, honeyed concern surrounding him like a blanket. 

It’d be easy to sink into Keith like this. He wishes he could. 

“I’ll rest,” Shiro says, if only to give Keith some reassurance. Once Keith leaves, he can bring up his PADD and maybe do some work from his bed. He doesn’t have to waste the entire rest of the day. 

Keith nods, standing again and working at the buttons of Shiro’s uniform. It’s an intimate gesture and Shiro only just manages to swallow back the soft trill that claws up his throat. He’s gotten good at hiding those sounds, too, when it comes to Keith— all the stupid, instinctive noises that Keith calls out from inside him. 

During his last heat, all he wanted was Keith. It’d been mortifying and embarrassing and it was only through sheer willpower that he didn’t go crying to Keith, for _his alpha_ who isn’t even his. Keith isn’t his alpha, no matter how much Shiro wishes he was. But try telling that to Shiro’s stupid omega brain.

Keith summons all of it from Shiro— that need to nurture, that need to please, that need to make better, to support, to be with forever. Being around Keith makes Shiro’s scent turn sweet, nearly cloying, makes him swallow back all the pleased chirps that twist inside his gut. Sometimes he’s so distracted just thinking about how it’d feel to have Keith nuzzle at his neck, his lips brushing against his pulse point, his scent glands, _anywhere._ Just to have Keith close. 

Keith makes Shiro feel like he can be like that, sometimes. He’s spent so long pushing it all down, forcing himself to be stronger. It’s been so long, it nearly feels unnatural to want to do something as little as trill at someone he loves. Maybe he’s broken. 

Shiro watches Keith closely as he helps Shiro undress. Keith gets him down to his shirtsleeves, undoing Shiro’s belt buckle. Shiro has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep quiet, watching the nimble slide of Keith’s fingers and not letting himself think of anything else. 

Keith undoes the belt buckle. Shiro makes a sound he can’t strangle back. 

Keith looks up at him, biting his lip. The little glint of his fang is entirely distracting. “Sorry,” Keith says, as if he has anything to apologize for. “Am I being overbearing? I, uh, you just seem kind of out of it.” 

Shiro shakes his head and lifts his hips so Keith can slip off his trousers. He sits on his bed in his undershirt and boxer briefs and longs to pull Keith into his lap. He’d pull Keith to him. He’d kiss him just to see what sounds he could ply from him, too. How they’d answer each other. How they’d sing for each other. 

“Sorry to worry you,” Shiro mumbles, feeling his cheeks turn hot. 

Keith touches his hair then, pushing it back from his forehead, and Shiro can’t swallow back the soft exhale he makes— a hitching gasp somewhere between whimper and trill. He clenches his jaw tight as soon as the noise escapes him. 

Keith makes the quietest hum in response, low and throaty and inherently Keith— a growl, a purr, something. But instantly Shiro feels himself relax, nearly slumping forward towards Keith. It’s as effective as a hand at the nape of his neck, or the call of Keith’s eyes on his. 

Keith brushes the hair away from Shiro’s face, cupping his cheeks. “You feel too warm.” 

“It’s just a cold,” Shiro says, which is its own admittance. He hates to expose this underbelly. 

“Will you rest?” Keith asks, voice a low croon. “Please?” 

Shiro blinks at Keith, trying to focus on the curve of his handsome face, the gentleness of his eyes. 

He wants to protest, wants to insist that he’s fine. But Keith pushes him gently onto his back, laying him out on his bed, and it’s so comforting, and somehow not enough. But his head is on the pillow and it’s hard to think even of finding the energy to sit up. 

Keith’s fingertips skim his jaw. It’s intimate. It’s something that would set Shiro on fire if he let himself linger on it. Every time Keith touches him like this, like they’re more than just friends, like Keith might want him, too, it’s nearly impossible to breathe. It’s so easy, instead, to imagine what it’d be like if he could just tug Keith into this bed with him, if he could tilt his head back and expose the column of his throat. He wonders what his scent would smell like if it were intrinsically woven with Keith’s. 

“I’ll rest,” he says in a quiet voice and wants to cringe over how pathetic he sounds. 

Keith makes that same low croon again. It makes Shiro feel warm all the way through, and not just because he has a fever. 

“I’ll go get you some medicine,” Keith says in that same low murmur. “I’ll be back soon. Just rest for now, okay?” 

He sounds so worried, but his scent is warm and soft, covering Shiro like the gentlest sunbeam. His eyes are tender when he looks at him, meeting Shiro’s gaze. Keith touches his shoulder and it makes goosebumps rise on his skin. Shiro wants to do everything Keith wants of him, wants to prove he can be good for his alpha. 

Not his alpha, he reminds himself. Just Keith, his best friend. 

Keith draws his hand away and Shiro closes his eyes. 

-

He doesn’t know for how long he sleeps, startled from a fitful doze only when he hears the doors to his quarters open. Atlas knows not to let in anyone unwelcome, so he knows it’s Keith even before he smells that soothing scent— accompanied by the smell of soup. 

Shiro opens his eyes with the tiniest sound. Keith smiles as he kneels next to him, setting down a container of soup and a spoon on Shiro’s bedside table before reaching for him. 

His hands smooth the hair from Shiro’s face. Shiro blinks at him lazily, chest all squirmy and head fuzzy. “Keith…”

“Hey, big guy,” Keith says. “How are you feeling?” 

Shiro swallows thickly, his throat all tight, and watches Keith’s face. Keith studies him in turn, his scent wafting with comfort and reassurance, but sour in its undercurrent— worry for Shiro, despite it all. Shiro’s eyes trace Keith’s face, the swell of his bottom lip, those smiling eyes, the scar slicing across his cheek. 

Shiro’s too tired to resist the urge to reach out and touch Keith then, his palm fitting over Keith’s cheek. He’s never really touched Keith like this, not so intimately, not with his thumb fitting into that angry curve of scar. But the touch feels right as soon as he does it.

Keith leans into his hand with a soft chuff, the sound brief but piercing straight through Shiro. Tension eases from his shoulders. 

“Shiro,” Keith murmurs. 

He doesn’t say anything else, although it looks like there’s more he _wants_ to say. Shiro makes another inquisitive sound but doesn’t lift his hand away. 

Keith closes his eyes, held still. Something changes in his scent, although Shiro is too distracted to identify what it is. 

Keith covers his hand over Shiro’s, then turns his head. His lips nearly ghost against Shiro’s wrist, and it makes Shiro’s heart leap. But in the end, Keith’s only turning to look towards the container of soup.

“Do you think you can eat?” he asks, taking Shiro’s hand away from his face. The movement is gentle, but it feels like rejection all the same. 

Shiro closes his eyes and whimpers. 

“Shiro,” Keith says, the sour note of anxiety spiking in his scent. His hands touch Shiro, and it’s reassuring and torture at once. He shifts closer towards him. “If you can eat something, it will help,” Keith adds. “I’ll take care of you… if you’ll let me.” 

_If you’ll let me._

Shiro puzzles over the words, eyes shut, imagining the feeling of Keith’s cheek beneath his palm. No, Keith is right. Shiro doesn’t let people take care of him. He doesn’t let people worry about him. He’s hated it, for years and years, to feel so vulnerable and exposed. He’s hated to be pitied, to be seen as lesser for his failures. 

Keith is gentle, though. Keith has always been gentle. 

Keith’s always been protective of him, but never in a way that felt stifling, like pity, like possession. 

With Keith, Shiro always feels loved. 

“I’ll eat,” he says, voice far too brittle at the edges. 

He lets Keith help him sit up, bleary-eyed and not that hungry. But he knows it’s important to eat, even if he doesn’t have the appetite for it. He eyes the container of soup as Keith cracks it open, the nurturing scent of broth flooding his senses. He makes a garbled sound, relief and exhaustion at once, and nearly slumps forward.

Keith catches him, his touch easy but firm. He holds Shiro up like it’s nothing. 

“Want to eat here or at the table?” 

Shiro’s determined not to be an invalid. He stands without a word, moving towards the table. Keith follows him, bringing the soup. 

Shiro’s body feels like a lead weight, but he’s set on eating by himself. He’s not sure if he could handle the mortification of Keith having to feed him, although the quiet, horrible part inside him wants that— wants the intimacy of Keith hovering above him, doting on him, providing for him. 

He eats a few spoonfuls of the soup. It’s bland and warm, the perfect combination for a struggling stomach, and he slurps on a noodle as Keith shuffles around him. Shiro’s not quite sure what Keith’s doing, head feeling too heavy as he stares down into the broth, but he’s grateful that Keith doesn’t hover. 

Keith’s still here and it soothes Shiro— he might not linger at the table with Shiro, but his scent wafts through the air, the sound of his footsteps reassuring. Keith wanders around the perimeter of his room, collecting supplies, his scent warm and encompassing. Shiro closes his eyes as he eats, sinking into the feeling of Keith all around him. 

He’s not even trying to regulate his own scent now and he can’t imagine what it must smell like. He’s sure not much else can be discernible beyond the unpleasant stench of sickness. 

“Is that okay?” Keith asks, his voice so near. Shiro didn’t even realize he’d come so close again.

Shiro looks up at Keith, arching above him. Shiro thinks he must try to smile, and Keith returns the gesture— his cheeks dimpling, his eyes tender. 

“Are you warm enough like that? I can grab you a sweater.” 

What Shiro wants is to just smell Keith’s scent. He wants to bury his nose in Keith’s uniform and inhale. He wishes he weren’t so much bigger than Keith so he could make some claim on Keith’s clothes, if that wouldn’t be too strange, to wrap himself around Keith and be, truly, surrounded by his scent. 

“The soup’s good,” Shiro says and sounds almost human. “Thank you, Keith.”

Keith’s expression softens. “I’m glad.” He takes a step back. “Nearly all finished here, so—” 

He gestures and Shiro turns, twisting around to look at his bed. It seems that in the time Shiro’s been eating, Keith’s been fixing his bed up, adding on extra blankets, piling up thick duvets and pillows along the sides. 

Making a nest. 

Something squirms inside Shiro’s chest, blooming wide. It yawns within him, a sort of strange centering at seeing the nest— one that Keith made for him. It’s not quite like the nests Shiro makes during his heats, when he’s longing for someone— for _Keith_ — but it’s a good approximation, and, most importantly, _Keith made it._

Keith shifts from foot to foot, clearly embarrassed by Shiro’s silence, taking it for disapproval. “Sorry. I know you could do it better, but I wanted to help.”

Shiro’s spoon drops into the bowl with a clatter in his eagerness to reach Keith, the chair scraping the floor as he stands. Shiro stumbles to him, taking his hands in his. He shakes his head, although the gesture makes his head swim. 

_I love you,_ he wants to say, because he always wants to say it. 

“It’s good, Keith,” Shiro says gently. 

Keith sniffs, his face turning pink, and he squeezes Shiro’s hands. “Okay.”

“Sorry to make you fuss,” Shiro says, embarrassment lacing his voice. “You don’t have to stick around if—” 

“I’m here,” Keith says in a quiet tone. “Shiro… let me help you.” 

Shiro takes a deep breath. Keith’s scent floods his senses, surrounding him. It eases the tension within him and before he even can question it, he nods. Looking at the nest, he can only feel a bone-deep exhaustion, that desire to just crawl inside and relax. To rest.

“My meetings—” 

“Shiro,” Keith says in a low croon, brushing a hand over his shoulder, that same little touch they always give each other. “Shiro,” Keith says again and waits for Shiro to look at him. “You need to rest.” 

Shiro is stubborn. During his last heat, he tried to work through it up until he finally had to call in his medical leave. Back before Kerberos, he’d work through his worst flareups, refusing to let himself slow down, refusing to give anyone a chance to look down on him.

Shiro knows it’s not pity that has Keith help Shiro climb into the nest. As soon as Shiro lies down, he feels a strange sense of peace swirl over him. 

“Oh,” he whispers. “This is nice.” 

He’s surrounded by his own blankets, pillows, and softer throws— all of it infused with his own scent, surrounding him and soothing him. It’s his but built by Keith— he can smell his friend all around him, too, although more muted. 

Shiro whimpers before he can stop the sound, pawing at his blankets and curling up on himself. 

“Is it okay?” Keith asks, hovering at the side of Shiro’s bed. He’s not inside the nest and, really, he should be. He should be.

It’s strange to think of it like that, with a more clear-headed focus. Usually when he’s in the thick of his heat sickness, all he wants is _alpha_. It’s a primal need, just longing for it, and it makes for an uncomfortable heat. 

This time, Shiro’s in his head. He’s sick, but he knows himself. It’s not a logical desire to have Keith here, but something less primal as a heat. He just wants Keith here. 

“Will you stay?” Shiro asks, and it feels too exposing to put voice to the desire.

But Keith only smiles, his answer immediate: “Of course.” 

Shiro sinks into the mattress, burying his face into the pillow and breathing himself in.

He feels Keith inch closer, sitting on the edge of the bed, still not quite in the nest, but closer. Like he’s guarding it. Shiro’s heart quivers in his chest, that same peace settling in him. He’s safe. He’s protected. Keith is here— he won’t let anything happen to Shiro. 

Keith is always protecting him. 

Shiro doesn’t need protection, but that isn’t why Keith does it. Shiro knows this about Keith, has always known this— Keith’s loyalty is absolute. He’s always ready to give Shiro what he wants, what he needs. 

Shiro reaches out his hand and touches Keith’s back. A chirp escapes Keith’s throat, quiet and surprised. He turns his head to look at Shiro over his shoulder. 

Shiro doesn’t move his hand, pressing it against Keith’s spine. He watches Keith’s expression, the way his eyes go starlight-soft, his smile a slow, comforting curve. His scent is perfect around Shiro, like a well-worn, well-loved blanket. 

And Shiro can’t recall ever seeing Keith look at anyone else the way he looks at Shiro. 

“You work too hard,” Keith says quietly, turning more fully towards Shiro. He has one leg folded up on the bed, his knee so close to Shiro. Keith reaches out, laying his hand on Shiro’s arm, a centering touch. “It’s a wonder it’s taken you this long to get sick like this… it’s okay to rest sometimes, Shiro.” 

He’s not being scolded, but Shiro still whines. It’s a low, involuntary sound. He bites down on his tongue as soon as he hears it. 

Keith shakes his head, squeezing Shiro’s bicep. “You’d say the same to me if I worked as hard as you do. Nobody can go at that pace forever, Shiro.” 

Shiro wants to protest, but he knows that Keith’s right. If Keith treated himself as flippantly as Shiro treats himself, he’d never approve. 

“I don’t… want anyone to worry,” Shiro says, when what he means is, _I don’t want anyone to think I’m weak._

Keith seems to get what he doesn’t say. He strokes his fingers along the curve of Shiro’s bicep. 

“Lie down with me?” Shiro asks. 

Keith does. He stretches out onto his side, facing Shiro. His expression is still easy, worried in his own quiet, intensely Keith way. The urge to reach out and touch Keith’s cheek again is there, but Shiro resists it. He settles, instead, for studying Keith’s face, his cheek smooshed against the pillow. 

Maybe this is what Shiro wants, he thinks. He tends to resist all care from anyone who offers, but lying out in a nest that Keith made for him, all Shiro wants is to be held, to be soothed, to feel Keith’s fingers in his hair. 

Easy intimacy. Everything that Keith gives to him. 

“If someone worries,” Keith says, “it’s because they care, Shiro.” 

Keith’s fingers stroke along the curve of Shiro’s arm. Shiro focuses on the feeling of it, the deliberate, gentle swipe of Keith’s touch.

Shiro wonders what it must be like for Keith to be inside this nest, surrounded by Shiro’s scent. 

“I know,” Shiro says, delayed, his voice sounding sleepy to his own ears. 

He didn’t realize this sickness was so bad. But, then again, he’s always been good at ignoring what his body is telling him, apparently. It was only a matter of time before this illness caught up on him. 

“Sorry for making you stay.”

“I’m here because I want to be,” Keith says. “Tell me what I can do for you, Shiro. I’ll do whatever I can.” 

It’s so earnestly spoken because that’s just how Keith always is. Shiro feels a little trill creep up his throat, sinking out of him in a soft sigh. He shifts a little, inching closer towards Keith. 

“Just say the word,” Keith says, voice like a vow. He squeezes Shiro’s arm and it’s a blissful feeling. Shiro shifts closer still.

Keith makes the lightest sound when Shiro presses their foreheads together. Shiro hadn’t meant to, but of course he’d fall into Keith’s orbit— of course he’d seek the heat of Keith’s body, his comforting presence. 

Keith is beautiful. Keith is everything. 

Keith’s hand lifts to touch his cheek, then stroke backwards. He plays with Shiro’s hair and it makes him shiver.

“That,” Shiro breathes, trembling at the feeling of Keith’s fingertips dragging across his scalp. 

“This?” Keith asks, petting.

“It feels nice,” Shiro says. His head aches, but Keith’s presence is a reassurance. He focuses on that feeling, on having Keith so close. 

And Keith does as Shiro asks. He cards his fingers through Shiro’s hair, just a slow petting. It’s an absent touch, but Keith is determined in all things. He swirls his fingers along Shiro’s scalp, rubbing slow circles with his thumb. He drags his fingers through his hair, petting it away from his face. 

Shiro sighs, sinking into the sensation of it, his eyes shut and focusing only on Keith, there and all around him. 

When Keith starts purring, it’s a low thrum deep in his chest. It’s a deep rumble, almost wispy and breathless. It’s not quite an alpha-thing so much as it’s a Galra-thing, with Keith so focused, so contented for Shiro, that the sound licks up his throat. It’s close to an omega trill, almost, and Shiro feels it instinctively deep in his gut. 

He nuzzles forward, his nose brushing Keith’s. He hums, chasing the vibrations of Keith’s purrs. Keith’s fingers slink through his hair, slow and luxurious, and the combination is enough to make Shiro feel boneless and surrounded. 

“How’s this?” Keith asks around the thrumming rumble of his purr, stuttering and low in his chest. 

The urge to touch Keith’s chest and feel it vibrating beneath his palm is strong, but Shiro resists. He nuzzles again and Keith mimics the gesture, his breath a low exhale against his lips, their noses brushing. Shiro’s heart kicks up in his chest. He’s sure his scent must be thick with longing. 

“It’s nice,” he whispers, and it’s an inadequate response but the closest he can get to putting language to the longing blooming inside him. 

“Good,” Keith says, still purring. “I know that bad nests can be— uh, bad.” 

“It’s good,” Shiro says. “You’re good, Keith.”

The words make Keith shiver, the purr stuttering to a quick halt for half a breath before it resumes. Keith’s fingers curl tight in Shiro’s hair, as if anchoring himself to Shiro. 

“I want to be,” Keith says, voice low and graveled out. 

Shiro scoots closer. Keith scritches his fingers against Shiro’s scalp, his nails blunt and sending shivers racing down Shiro’s spine. 

“You are.” 

Keith makes a soft crooning sound, fingers curling in Shiro’s hair. “Thanks, Shiro.”

“You always are,” Shiro insists. Keith hums, but it still sounds strangely disbelieving. 

They stay like that, pressed together, Keith a comforting wall of scent and purring, his fingers gentle and soothing in Shiro’s hair. His headache pounds at his temples but seems to fade the longer Keith stays close. 

He could sleep like this, he realizes. And he’d be fine with doing that, with dropping off, slow and vulnerable, knowing that Keith would look after him. 

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” Keith murmurs once he notices Shiro nodding off.

Shiro is safe. He knows that.

He sleeps.

-

It’s dark when Shiro wakes again, but Keith is still there. Keith lies on his side next to him in the same position as before, although he must have stopped petting his hair at some point. His arm is draped around Shiro, though, and the weight of it helps to ease Shiro’s nerves, that strange in-between place of waking and dreaming. Ever since his actual death, waking up feels terrifying sometimes— that awareness of having to wake up, and the anxiety of _what if, this time—_

“Hey,” Keith says, voice croaky and sweet. 

“Hi.”

“How are you feeling?” Keith murmurs, reaching to touch his forehead. “You’re still warm.”

“I’m okay,” Shiro says. “Sorry. Have you been awake the whole time?”

“I napped a bit, then answered some emails.” Keith nods towards the discarded PADD on the bedside table. He smiles. “I didn’t mind.”

His fingers brush through Shiro’s bangs, a little tacky with sleep-sweats, which Shiro should be embarrassed about. Keith pushes his hair away from his forehead, his touch lingering and gentle. 

“If you’re sure…”

“I just wanted to help,” Keith says, still smiling. “Are you hungry? Let me grab you some water.”

Before Shiro can protest, Keith slips away. It feels far too empty in his nest with Keith’s absence, his scent drifting away with him. Shiro whimpers, swallowing the sound back so Keith won’t hear, and nearly reaches out after him. 

Keith isn’t gone for long, fussing around in Shiro’s kitchen as he cleans up the discarded dishes from earlier and fills a tall glass with water. 

Shiro doesn’t think he breathes again until Keith’s back in the nest, kneeling on the side of the bed and helping Shiro to sit up enough to sip a few mouthfuls of water. Shiro can’t get down the whole glass but he manages about a third and that seems to satisfy Keith. 

“I don’t think I’ve really seen you like this before,” Keith says.

“Sorry.” 

“No,” Keith says quickly, shaking his head. “I don’t mean it as a bad thing, I just… I know that you like to take care of yourself.” 

That much is true. Even after he’d returned to his body, those first few days on Black where Keith was looking after him, Shiro had been stubborn. He’d tried to do everything himself, and mostly managed it. Keith was so focused on leading Voltron that he didn’t have time to dote on Shiro nonstop. 

Despite it all, Shiro’s not sure if he’d have let Keith dote then, the guilt and terror still so heavy in his limbs. It’d been bad enough to wake Keith up each night with nightmares, startling awake each time, just so sure that he’d managed to kill everyone he loves. 

Shiro’s eyes stray to Keith’s cheek, the scar curving across his skin. 

Keith must notice his gaze, his smile softening. He sets down the cup and helps Shiro lie back down again before he settles in beside him. 

His fingers find Shiro’s hair, petting absently. Shiro lets out the lowest little sigh, another almost-trill, and shifts closer. Keith’s there to meet him, wriggling in, shifting to make the angle better as he pets Shiro’s hair. 

It puts him so close to Shiro’s neck. Shiro feels his heart kick up, imagining how easily it’d be for Keith to lean in closer and just nuzzle against the column of his throat, his nose to bump against his scent glands. 

Shiro swallows. 

“You don’t have to stay,” Shiro says, voice thick. “If you’re tired. It’s late…” 

His scent betrays him, though. He can smell the twist of his own longing, of wanting Keith to stay. Keith doesn’t outwardly react to the words, only shrugging, his thumb working a slow, steady circle just behind Shiro’s ear. 

It makes Shiro go boneless, far too close to the sensitive spots on his neck. He doesn’t even bother to hold back his trill this time, the sound punching out of him. 

“I’ll stay,” Keith says with a breath. “If that’s okay.”

“It is,” Shiro says instantly. 

He wants Keith closer. But he doesn’t know how to ask for it, what to do. His body feels like lead, exhausted and heavy. He blinks at Keith, slow and purposeful. Keith smiles and his eyes go dark. 

“I never…” Shiro says, eyes straying to Keith’s scar, puckered up with his smile. “I never said sorry.” 

“You’ve said sorry to me enough to last a lifetime,” Keith says quietly. 

“I make you do too much,” Shiro says, feeling strangely insistent about that. It’s the truth. Keith’s gone above and beyond for him— far more than Shiro would ever ask or expect of anyone, much less an unmated alpha to his unmated omega friend. 

Keith shakes his head at the words, adamant. There’s a fire in his eyes, his scent spiking with that familiar determination that Shiro’s always loved about Keith, something he’s always admired. His fingers twist in Shiro’s hair. 

“You,” Keith says fiercely, “are always worth it. Always.” 

Shiro blinks at Keith, his lips parting even though no words or sounds escape. 

Keith isn’t done. He stares at Shiro. “You are worth everything, Shiro. If there’s ever something I can do for you, I’ll do it. No hesitation.” He touches his scar then, just a swipe of his thumb down the length of it. “Anything is worth protecting you. Saving you.” 

The words steal away Shiro’s breath. He lies there, stunned into silence, just staring at Keith. Keith looks back, steady and sure. He’s unrelenting. 

But that’s Keith.

That’s always been Keith— just one of the many things he loves about him. Shiro doesn’t know if he’s ever going to be worthy of that devotion, but he also never doubts that Keith will give it to him. 

Maybe that’s why Shiro lurches forward and kisses Keith before he can think of it, a trill choking up in his throat. Keith’s answering growl is surprised before it melts into a quiet croon and he presses back. Shiro clings to Keith, his hands flinging up to cup his cheeks, but he didn’t have to worry— Keith wasn’t pulling away, only pressing closer. 

“Keith,” Shiro whimpers and kisses him breathless, kisses him as easily as breathing. 

Keith makes that same sound, kissing him, his lips pillowing against Shiro’s. It’s a blissful feeling, something sweet and soft, their scents intermingling until Shiro goes dizzy with it, dizzy with lack of breath. But he doesn’t want to draw away, not when Keith is kissing him back, not when Keith is leaning into the touch of Shiro’s hand to his cheek, not when he’s here curled up in a nest he made for Shiro.

“Shiro,” Keith says into the kiss, whispery and fond, “don’t push yourself—” 

Shiro kisses him harder. Keith’s purr kicks up in his chest and he kisses him back. 

“ _Keith,_ ” Shiro whispers. 

Keith purrs at him, squirming in closer. Shiro wraps his arm around him, tethering him close. He kisses Keith, will kiss him forever if he can get away with it, and everything else melts away but that. His hand falls to Keith’s chest, feeling the quiver of Keith’s purr.

It makes him sigh— which only makes Keith kiss him harder, his fingers curling tight in Shiro’s hair. 

When they part, it’s just to gulp down air. Shiro blinks his eyes open to find Keith already studying him, stunned but hopeful. As soon as their eyes meet, Keith huffs a breath and then laughs— disbelieving, delirious, _happy._

“Shiro,” he says in a murmur, hushed and reverent. 

“Yeah,” Shiro says, feeling equally as buoyant. He traces his thumb down the length of Keith’s cheek, delighting at the small chuff Keith makes as he leans into the touch, cheek pressing to Shiro’s palm. 

“Will you rest now?” Keith asks.

Shiro frowns and it makes Keith laugh. Then he hesitates, tipping forward, like he wants to kiss Shiro again. 

Shiro doesn’t let him doubt. He lurches forward and kisses him again, slow and sweet and lingering. Keith sighs and melts against him, petting his fingers through his hair and purring. 

It’s perfect. Shiro’s never felt so relaxed. For once, in what feels like a long time, he feels happy. 

When they part again, Keith presses his forehead to Shiro’s, their noses brushing. It’s the same gesture and position as earlier, but it feels all the more intimate now knowing that Keith wants him close like this, too. 

Keith’s scent radiates happiness, the most honeyed he’s ever smelled it. It curls around Shiro, permeating everything. Shiro wants to drown in that scent forever. He hopes his own is equally as sweet. 

Keith’s fingertips brush down his jaw and cheeks. “I’ve— I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long.”

“Me too,” Shiro says, staring into Keith’s eyes.

Keith breathes a little sigh, like even those two words are a surprise. 

Shiro cups Keith’s cheeks, kissing him in a few short pecks. Keith whimpers and a purr uncurls up his throat. 

“You should be resting,” Keith mumbles even as he kisses him back. Shiro feels like he’s soaring. 

Shiro doesn’t answer. Instead, he bares his neck— and watches Keith choke in surprise. 

“Keith,” Shiro says in a whisper.

Keith swallows, looking stunned, his scent warm and honeyed around them. And then he ducks his head, nuzzling hard at Shiro’s neck. 

And just like that, Shiro feels himself truly relax. He goes pliant and boneless beneath Keith as he nuzzles, his nose brushing against his feverish skin, his lips pressing in short little kisses. When Keith mouths at his scent glands, it’s too much. Shiro feels the burst of warmth through his whole body, thrumming with a bone-deep satisfaction and reassurance. 

He belongs. He belongs here with Keith in his arms. He belongs in this nest with Keith. Keith is only ever welcomed here. 

“Alpha,” Shiro sighs, the word sinking out of him before he can swallow it back. 

Keith keens. “ _Shiro._ ” 

His mouth brushes hot against Shiro’s skin and it’s perfect. Shiro curls his arms tight around Keith and squeezes him. It takes some squirming and maneuvering, but he keeps Keith pressed to him, wrapped around him even as Shiro turns in his arms. After some shift, Shiro presses his back into Keith’s chest. 

Keith is a little parenthetical curled around him, sheltering him, his arms tight around him and hands pressed against his chest, one settled over his heart. Shiro ducks his head forward, exposing the nape of his neck, and Keith doesn’t need any instruction.

He nuzzles hard at the back of Shiro’s neck, covering Shiro in his scent, breathless and purring low in his chest. When he shifts, lips brushing, it’s so intimate, so strange— Shiro’s never done this, never let anyone do this to him— and yet it feels right, feels how it is supposed to be. It’s so close to the way Keith would curl around him, the way he’d bestow the mating mark and—

And, maybe, someday. 

For now, just the nuzzle of Keith’s cheek against his skin is enough to send him shivering and pliant. He sighs out, fond with longing, leaning into his alpha’s strong arms and feeling protected, letting himself be vulnerable in a way he never would with anyone else. 

But he’s safe. He’s safe with Keith. Always. 

His body still thrums with fever, a headache buzzing against his temples, but it doesn’t matter. For once, it feels less like he’s ignoring the pain of his body— as he so often does— and more like he’s finding comfort in Keith here with him. 

He turns his head when Keith pauses in his nuzzling and scenting, his throat thick with a soft, inquisitive chirp. 

Keith kisses him, just a light peck against his lips. “Rest,” he says and squeezes him tight. “I’m staying.” 

Shiro laughs and kisses him again one last time before he settles. 

He’s never slept so well in his life.

**Author's Note:**

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